


take my breath away (you know i'm bound to choke)

by essenceofheroism



Category: All For the Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, i think, neil x andrew, the foxhole court - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:27:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7008793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essenceofheroism/pseuds/essenceofheroism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or the one in which andrew dreams neil runs away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take my breath away (you know i'm bound to choke)

**Author's Note:**

> title: dkla by troye sivan

Neil didn’t think Andrew would find out that he’d run away first thing in the morning. Andrew does though, just because he’s him, and because Andrew’s heartstrings have been disgustingly twisted and attached to Neil in a way that chills the marrow in his bones (one feels every tug and pull felt by the heart, after all). The first effect this piece of information has on him is the way that red hot anger licks its way up his spine and vices his chest. The second is when his hands clench into fists, then unclench, then shake. The last is when he finds that he absolutely, utterly and irrevocably detests Neil Josten, but not as much as he detests himself. This last sign is followed by the burning in his throat when he realized he can’t breathe. 

This is the point at which Andrew woke. 

It felt as if his nightmare had bled into reality when he noticed he was choking (either on empty air or Neil’s name, he was sure one was vaguely more likely than the other but he ignored it.) Andrew is usually careful and meticulous when his fingers chase Neil’s skin but he’d just had a nightmare so his arm reflexed to (quite violently) bat against the other side of the bed to seek Neil. Andrew’s quite aware that he’s being completely stupid and out of character when he feels ice clawing his heart when his arm makes contact with cold sheets. It’s not stupid because Neil would never run (because even now, sometimes Andrew still thinks that Neil will run; he will run and not return because running practically comes easier to Neil than breathing.) It’s stupid because he can hear the shower running in the bathroom and Neil’s shed shirt is laying on the edge of the bed. 

Fucking Josten. 

He lazily gets out of bed and tugs on his sweatpants, then the shirt he wore shirt last night (he notices sickeningly that it’s Neil’s. It’s even more sickening to Andrew Minyard that he enjoys what Neil’s shirt smells like because it reminds him of Neil and that’s fantastically grounding.) This feeling, or sentiment, whatever the hell it is, is not funny or cute or romantic to Andrew because its dangerous and it fucking terrifies him. The concoction that is this Minyard brother is a fine sculpture made of ground-up bones, held together together by dried blood, and adorned with the fine powder of his battered skin. In a museum, this type of art is meant to be stored in a crystal glass case, in a far, abandoned wing somewhere, devoid of any touch or flash photography because despite its ethereal beauty, it could crumble or be crumbled upon contact. Neil Josten, in this museum, was the lost visiter, never staying long enough to read the damn directions, always wandering long enough to break and damage. Neil, who’d found himself in the one place he shouldn’t be in and punched the fortifications of said devastating work of art. At this point, Andrew found that he was quite close to either turning Neil to dust, or shattering into a rude, unfixable mess of shards himself, and he wasn’t very fond of either option. 

The entire idea simply caused his jaw to tick and caused something ugly to wake up in his eyes because he hates this terrible vulnerability almost as much as he craves Neil’s voice. 

“You’re up,” Neil says and it makes Andrew look up at him. He swallows the fire in his throat but refuses to respond. A small frown makes its way on Neil’s face when he recognizes the knotted skin between Andrew’s brows. Instead of pulling a shirt on, he makes his way over to Andrew’s bed and Andrew hates him for it.

“Andrew?” There’s concern in his azure eyes now. A bright blue, a tethering blue. Andrew despises him. 

Neil's hand is close enough to Andrew’s leg to touch but he doesn’t because he knows Andrew might not want that. Neil doesn’t offer anything more because he knows just his name covers all the hanging questions he wants to ask. He knows that Andrew knows those questions already, and like always, Neil waits, like he always waits, for Andrew to decide what he wants. 

It seems like a waning eternity before Andrew responds with a simple “I want you to prove it.” Now, Neil is confused but his raised eyebrow is answered with Andrew’s scowl, which signals that he’s willing to expand if he absolutely has to. 

“Prove to me, Josten, that you won’t fucking run away. Whatever shit’s thrown at you, show me you won’t run away.” There’s a long-gone but familiar wickedness in his eyes and a bitter smirk plastered on his face that drips challenge and blood onto his teeth. He’s breathing a little harsh and its audible but Neil doesn’t comment if he notices. (He does.) It’s a surprising question yes, but his lips don’t overflow guilt this time that Andrew’s demanded this because he knows now he won’t run away, can’t run away, not from Exy, from the Foxes, from Waymack, and not from Andrew. It’s true that Neil’s been a runner all his life and for 18 years he’s ran away from things; his father, his home, his name, but now he’s been given something, someplace and someone to run towards and as much as that numbs Andrew, it exhilarates Neil. 

Neil would smile softly but Andrew looks like he’s teetering on the edge of something very sharp and his eyes might cut him so he doesn’t move. 

“Show you?” 

“Yeah. Do something that’d make it impossible for you to go. Dye your hair freaking electric blue, get a tattoo on your neck. You’re creative, go do something radical.” His words are bitter and poisonous, but Neil finds it crushing that they’re laced with fear. 

“I could get bright red contacts,” Neil suggests. Andrew rewards him with a roll of his eyes. 

“That’s not making it hard. You can take those out in the next 2 minutes.”  
Neil stays silent for a couple more beats and Andrew’s heart fills with lead because there’s no proof he wouldn’t run away and it was stupid for him to think otherwise so he gets up with a huffed “Nevermind, forget it.”

But Neil Josten isn’t anything if not stubborn so the next thing he knows, he’s sitting back on the bed with Neil’s fingers pressed around his wrist. He shoots him an unimpressed and bored glare that Neil deflects easily.

“What do you want?”  
Neil responds, “I’m going to show you.” 

Andrew looks at him like he’s crazy and as if this conversation didn’t even happen (because he’s already trying to forget it) but Neil continues after a slight hesitation. He looks down at Andrew’s still-held hand and then at this eyes, silently asking for permission before he starts to brings up the hand towards his chest slowly, slowly enough to let Andrew snatch it away if he wants (but he’s thankful that he doesn’t.) Andrew’s quite confused as to where his hand’s being guided and his hands quiver a little when the pads of this fingers feel the calloused surface of Neil’s scars. His eyes are bewildered when they meet Neil’s, and they whisper trust. Andrew feels when Neil’s skin shivers and momentarily tenses under his palm but he released the buildup of tension in a single exhaling breathe. He feels when Neil’s eyes go bare and sees the vulnerable and tender rawness of them as he’s stripped blank in front of Andrew, a boy who’d drugged and bullied and tortured him only a couple years ago. Andrew, the first person Andrew had leaked even the most watered version of his truth to. Andrew, who he’d chosen to run towards.

Andrew’s fingers soften and flow like cool water over his scarred heart before Neil pushes the lump in his throat down and moves again. He was already so close to Andrew and now he’s leaning in so his face is dangerously close to Andrew’s lips. He comes close enough so that they’re a thin breadth apart but not enough that he’s forcing a kiss. Andrew knows the meaning of that space, the weight of it, the question in it and his answer is yes, so he pushes towards Neil even as his mind screams. 

Neil’s lips are tattered but their promise is bruising and firm. Andrew lets himself be kissed, be reassured and there’s no space left for air between them but Neil is sort of an equivalent to oxygen for him anyway. Neil doesn’t look at him when he finally pulls away and his voice cracks and if Andrew notices, he doesn’t mention it. (He notices.) 

“That’s why I can’t leave.” It’s said low enough that its almost meant to not be heard. 

It’s unsaid, like so many things between then are because neither of them are kings of words but Andrew understands. He doesn’t condone it, but he understands it from Neil’s perspective and for once, that’s enough. He understands that Neil can’t run because when Neil runs, he doesn’t leave a trace of him behind and there’s already too much of him fused here at Palmetto. There’s too much of Neil Josten engraved in Andrew’s memory. Neil’s a light packer and the weight of Andrew’s lips on his is enough to make his back ache with the effort of carrying such an incubus. 

In that instant, as Andrew’s lips burn and bruise Neil’s once more, he realizes that Neil is not the dispersing smoke after a thrillingly burnt cigarette. Neil Josten is the nicotine eating at his lungs; permanently rooted, ever-present, and unforgiving.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are wonderfully appreciated + find me on tumblr for prompts/whatever else at ohliverfelicity.tumblr.com :)


End file.
